you can buy your hair if it won't growyou can fix your nose if he says soyou can buy all the make-up that MAC can makebut if...you van't look inside youfind out who am i toobe in a position to make me feel sodamn unpretty!

note that we don't speak english here, so that's kinda in her defense. though, why did she write it in english when she isn't capable of doing it properly. she also isn't one of those slutty girls who has a new boyfriend every week and in between claims all men are assholes. she's short, pretty fat but already has a boyfriend of like 3 years.

you can buy your hair if it won't growyou can fix your nose if he says soyou can buy all the make-up that MAC can makebut if...you van't look inside youfind out who am i toobe in a position to make me feel sodamn unpretty!

note that we don't speak english here, so that's kinda in her defense. though, why did she write it in english when she isn't capable of doing it properly. she also isn't one of those slutty girls who has a new boyfriend every week and in between claims all men are assholes. she's short, pretty fat but already has a boyfriend of like 3 years.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,Or else forget the purpose of the night,Forget their tea -- forget their appetite.See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew,The fire is going out and no one ringsFor coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he dieBy a humane society?No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soonThe little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.Arise! take snuffers by the handle,There's a large cauliflower in each candle.A winding-sheet, ah me! I must awayTo No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;Where may your tailor live?' 'I may not tell.O pardon me -- I'm absent now and then.Where might my tailor live? I say againI cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd --He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'

Written by some fag called John Keats.

Quote by Vornik

Thanks for the advice. I'm going to put it, along with your other advice, into a book, the pages of which I will then use to wipe my ass.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,Or else forget the purpose of the night,Forget their tea -- forget their appetite.See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew,The fire is going out and no one ringsFor coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he dieBy a humane society?No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soonThe little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.Arise! take snuffers by the handle,There's a large cauliflower in each candle.A winding-sheet, ah me! I must awayTo No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;Where may your tailor live?' 'I may not tell.O pardon me -- I'm absent now and then.Where might my tailor live? I say againI cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd --He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a piriful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky, And I drink at my eye, Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain - Then follow, my Caius! then follow: On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Of golden sunshine, Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo! God of the Meridian, And of the East and West, To thee my soul is flown, And my body is earthward press'd. - It is an awful mission, A terrible division; And leaves a gulph austere To be fill'd with worldly fear. Aye, when the soul is fled To high above our head, Affrighted do we gaze After its airy maze, As doth a mother wild, When her young infant child Is in an eagle's claws - And is not this the cause Of madness? - God of Song, Thou bearest me along Through sights I scarce can bear: O let me, let me share With the hot lyre and thee, The staid Philosophy. Temper my lonely hours, And let me see thy bowers More unalarm'd!

Quote by Vornik

Thanks for the advice. I'm going to put it, along with your other advice, into a book, the pages of which I will then use to wipe my ass.

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a piriful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky, And I drink at my eye, Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain - Then follow, my Caius! then follow: On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Of golden sunshine, Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo! God of the Meridian, And of the East and West, To thee my soul is flown, And my body is earthward press'd. - It is an awful mission, A terrible division; And leaves a gulph austere To be fill'd with worldly fear. Aye, when the soul is fled To high above our head, Affrighted do we gaze After its airy maze, As doth a mother wild, When her young infant child Is in an eagle's claws - And is not this the cause Of madness? - God of Song, Thou bearest me along Through sights I scarce can bear: O let me, let me share With the hot lyre and thee, The staid Philosophy. Temper my lonely hours, And let me see thy bowers More unalarm'd!

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a piriful rummer, My wine overbrims a whole summer; My bowl is the sky, And I drink at my eye, Till I feel in the brain A Delphian pain - Then follow, my Caius! then follow: On the green of the hill We will drink our fill Of golden sunshine, Till our brains intertwine With the glory and grace of Apollo! God of the Meridian, And of the East and West, To thee my soul is flown, And my body is earthward press'd. - It is an awful mission, A terrible division; And leaves a gulph austere To be fill'd with worldly fear. Aye, when the soul is fled To high above our head, Affrighted do we gaze After its airy maze, As doth a mother wild, When her young infant child Is in an eagle's claws - And is not this the cause Of madness? - God of Song, Thou bearest me along Through sights I scarce can bear: O let me, let me share With the hot lyre and thee, The staid Philosophy. Temper my lonely hours, And let me see thy bowers More unalarm'd!